


Theorn Shanks's Disaster Holiday Special

by Greyias



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, In-Jokes, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Mixed Media, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Picture Heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 11:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyias/pseuds/Greyias
Summary: It's time for the annual Life Day gift exchange at the SIS's annual holiday party, and the Republic's best, okay, maybe less-than-best, agent is on the case!





	Theorn Shanks's Disaster Holiday Special

**Author's Note:**

> One of my buddies over on Tumblr sent in a very special request for a holiday fic starring a joke character I rolled up in-game that quickly had taken on a life of his own, Theorn Shanks, a less-than-qualified SIS agent who hero worshipped Theron Shan to a startling degree. Her requirement was that the story be as cheesy and corny as utterly possible, so I was only too happy to take up the challenge.
> 
> Special thanks goes to MJayde66 for being a sport and helping me get some photos in-game with her own, erm, unique SIS agent, Jones Baklava.

All was abuzz at the Heorum Complex, as everyone stared at the little scraps of flimsi that were being handed out. Usually spies tended to keep everything fairly close to the vest, but not even the best SIS Agent could contain their reaction in this particular situation. Some people were groaning, some sighing in relief, but one individual in particular was staring at his with a mixture of shock and joy.

“C’mon,” the man next to him was chanting to himself, “Deena Riss, Deena Riss, Deena Riss.”

Theorn Shanks ignored his partner’s maddened chanting as the organizer of the SIS Holiday Party Gift Exchange continued to hand out everyone’s gift assignments. He had just received his, and the name on the tiny scrap of flimsi was filling Theorn with a sense of excitement, and slowly but surely rising sense of panic. This was it, this was his _chance_.

“Deena Risssss,” Agent Jones Baklava whispered to himself one last time, as if that might somehow cement his chances, as the agent handing out the assignments raised an amused eyebrow at him, but didn’t actually make a comment.

Jones opened up the folded piece of flimsi and let out a quiet curse, “Damn it! I have to find a gift for Fauler? Really? That cheapskate doesn’t like _anything_.”

“Have fun,” the agent said with a knowing smirk, as he finished handing out assignments.

“Hey, trade me!” Jones said to Theorn urgently.

“What?” Theorn blinked, snapped out of his stupor, before holding his piece of flimsi to his chest protectively. “No! No way!”

“Come on, Theorn, I totally covered for you on our last assignment to Ord Mantell.”

“You mean the one where you got too into the character of your cover identity and nearly shot a Separatist we were interrogating? Yeah, glad you didn’t tell the director about _that_.”

“I was more talking about the ship full of dangerous explosives you let that smuggler steal, but yeah, that too.”

“I didn’t—” Theorn glanced around suspiciously at their potentially eavesdropping fellow agents before deciding to wisely change the subject. “I’m not trading names with you.”

“Why, did you get me?”

“No,” Theorn hedged. “I just… want to keep mine.”

“Oh, let me see!” Jones snatched the scrap of flimsi from his partner’s hand and peered at it, and then let out a sharp bark. “Oh, that’s rich!”

“It’s my big chance to break the ice!” Theorn quickly snatched it back, folding it and putting it in the inside pocket of his genuine replica red leatheris jacket that he’d specially ordered off the HoloNet. “I’m actually surprised he’s participating. He hasn’t gone to a single SIS Holiday Party in the past five years.”

“I guess even the Grouch has to spread his special brand of Life Day Cheer once every half-decade. Must be part of his curse.”

“He’s not the Grouch,” Theorn insisted, “he’s the best spy in the SIS! We should all try to be a little more like Theron Shan.”

“And some of us try a little _too_ hard,” Jones said archly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Theorn, you’re wearing an exact replica of his boots, belt, and kriff, I’m not even going to ask where you got that jacket.”

“It was a Life Day present to myself.”

“Of course it was. I’m just saying, I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten a restraining order yet. The only thing you haven’t done is try to match that ridiculous hair of his.”

“You’re right!” Theorn gasped.

“I know I am. So you get what I’m trying to say, right?”

“Yes, I need a makeover before the party!”

“N-no… that’s not… you know what? Fine, yeah, let’s go get you the Stalker Fan Makeover. I’m sure he’ll love having an exact duplicate of himself running around the office.”

“You act like this is the first time one agent has brazenly copied another’s style.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jones said airily, “I am an _original_.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“How can I be jealous? Between my new look and this gift, this is going to be the best Holiday Party ever!” Theorn crowed.

* * *

Agent Theorn Shanks, the most professional of SIS Agents, was having a hard time sitting still in the barber’s chair, watching the magical transformation taking place in the holo-mirror. Jones’s support for the fabulous faux hawk makeover might not have been completely genuine, but he did wind up suggesting the best barber shop in the city. Theorn wasn’t sure he had enough hair to pull the style off, but the Twilek seemed to have a magic gift when it came to hair. (Ironically enough.)

Less fortunate was the fact that Jones found the lady who held the future of Theorn’s fabulous style literally in her hands ridiculously attractive, and kept leaning into her personal space. The flirting was dragging out the haircut twice as long, and was making Theorn a bit nervous to be honest.

“You have a real gift you know,” Jones said leaning into the Twilek barber’s personal space as she spun the chair around to get a better angle on the front part of Theorn’s magical new style as she cleaned it up with a vibrorazer. “Not just anyone can make this nerd look halfway cool.”

She giggled a little, and Theorn watched as her eyes widened in shock as her hand dipped a different way.

“What was that?” Theorn asked.

“Um, nothing,” Jones insisted quickly as he moved off behind the chair to mess with the power settings on the holo-mirror.

“Don’t worry, I can fix it,” the barber insisted.

“Fix what?”

She spun the chair back around before Jones had finished finding the power switch for the holomirror, and Theorn saw the giant bald patch where his hair had once been. He fixed his partner with a glare with the power of a thousand suns.

“What have you done?”

“It’s… not that bad,” Jones insisted even as the Twilek began to quickly and efficiently shave off the other side of his head to match. “Mohawks are much cooler than faux hawks anyway. And at least your new style is uniquely you!”

“But… but…”

“At least the spikes on top match his,” Jones insisted, and then added under his breath, “well, what ones that are left.”

“Are you sure it looks all right?”

“Yeah!” Jones flashed him a thumbs up, and quickly shoved the portable holomirror the barber was bringing up before Theorn could see the shaved patch in the back that suspiciously resembled women’s lingerie. “Oh, look at the time! You better head to the market if you’re going to get your gift before the party!”

“But—”

“Tick tock goes the gifting clock!”

“You owe me, Jones! Specifically you owe me all the hair I just lost!”

“I’ll… make it up to you somehow. You better get going before the stores close!”

* * *

Theorn knew _exactly_ what to get his hero for the gift exchange, after all, as his biggest fan he knew everything that there was to know about Theron Shan (well, as much as possible, given his chosen profession.) Unfortunately after last year’s gift exchange fiasco, Director Trant had instituted a strict price limit for this year’s festivities. Given the price tag of the absolute _perfect_ gift for the SIS’s best agent ever, Theorn was going to have to get… creative, if he wanted to stay within the established budget.

Far from the glittering Life Day decorations and the bustling crowds hurriedly trying to get gifts for everyone on their list, the darkened alleys looked like something out of a seedy crime holonovel than a place where Life Day cheer could be found. But even if they had forgotten to pay their electricity bill, the proprietors hawking their wares here dealt with some of the… less-than-legitimate gifts to be found for the holiday season.

Counterfeit was such a strong word, but sometimes it was hard for everyone to afford or buy the latest must-have toy when everything sold out. Sure, everything here might have been a knockoff, but it was the thought that counted right?

Theorn bypassed by several rows of Tickle-Me-Wampas and Ewok Ruxpins, the latest toy crazes to hit the Galaxy at large, and headed straight to the extremely dark room at the very back. If Theorn’s contacts were to be believed, this place still had some stock on the gift that he wanted to buy for his hero. Theron only deserved the very best (counterfeit) goods that credits could buy.

This last room was the darker than all of the other ones before, as if someone had deliberately shot out all the lights. Normally he could appreciate someone’s dedication to their criminal underworld aesthetic, but this was a little ridiculous. How was anyone supposed to inspect their gray market merchandise if they had to look it over by the light of their holo? Then again, the item that Theorn was after was in demand, and the competition was fierce. Perhaps his fellow customers had let their eagerness just get a little out of hand.

As Theorn walked further into the room, he saw it! Sitting lonely on the last shelf in the room was the very one in stock, a badly misspelled box containing the greatest gift in the galaxy. The dimness of the room was suddenly broken by the light of a single lightsaber as it plunged through the chest of a rival customer trying to sneak through the shadows to grab the beloved gift in question.

  


“Hey!” Theorn called to the mysterious maked figure. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Eliminating the competition,” came the low, gravely reply.

“Don’t you think murder is a little outside of the spirit of Life Day?”

“No,” came the growl.

“Oh, well,” Theorn said a little awkwardly, “I guess holidays at your house are fun.”

“I had fun beaten out of me before I could crawl.”

“That’s really sad, buddy. I’d love to talk to you about your horrible home life some more while I secretly call the cops on my implants, but I _really_ need to grab my gift for the Office Life Day party.”

“I just killed a roomful of rival customers for this, what makes you think I’ll give it to you?”

“Well, you see, it’s for this really cool guy I work with (okay, I work in the same office as him, but close enough right?), and this is my first chance to talk to him and tell him how awesome I think he is and maybe we can become best friends, and go on adventures together as the best dressed spies in the Republic while we save the galaxy and then we all live happily ever after. Isn’t that reason enough?”

The masked man paused to consider this very sound line of reasoning.

Theorn watched, waiting for the magic of Life Day to work its charms on the scarred and broken individual in front of him. Just like in the holiday classics of old, he would see the error of his ways, and let Theorn have his precious knockoff for the office gift exchange, before marching off into the sunset to begin his own redemption arc.

“So, what do you say, pal? Knock it off with the pointless and over-the-top murder and join in the spirit of the season?”

“I think…”

“Yeah?” Theorn nodded eagerly.

“I think… NOT.”

The lightsaber reignited with a flash, and Theorn would have been done for, if he didn’t have the well-honed instincts of a very clumsy individual, and also if the masked psychopath hadn’t accidentally slipped on a pool of blood leaking out from one of his previous his victims.

“No… no no no no,” Theorn muttered to himself, hand immediately going to the side and inspecting his brand new, one-of-a-kind replica jacket for holes or scorch marks. He had just _gotten_ this jacket, and the online dealer was very specific in its “no refunds for lightsaber damage” policy.

Apparently there were a lot unfortunate accidents in the cosplay world.

“Thank the Force,” he muttered, realizing that the new addition to his wardrobe was safe and secure. He stumbled to his feet just as his masked rival regained his own footing, and immediately whipped out his standard issue blaster pistol.

“You know, I’m usually a pretty relaxed and forgiving guy, but you nearly ruined my brand new jacket, and I can’t let that stand! Oh, and also you’re under arrest for murder.”

“You can’t arrest me!” The masked man shouted. “Do you know who I am?”

“A lost extra from Phantom of the Space Opera?” Theorn guessed.

“No,” he cried in a pique of annoyance. “Seriously? You don’t recognize me. Guy who murdered his father, brought the Republic and the Empire to its knees, I razed dozens of worlds in my endless quest for vengeance. I am eternal, I am the Emperor of Zakuul and I—”

“Do you always monologue this much?”

“Usually only to my sister, although she keeps interrupting to make fun of me.”

“Sucks to be you,” Theorn said, “but don’t worry, I’ll be sure to add patricide and terrorism to the list of charges when Coruscant Security shows up.”

“No prison can hold me, and you, pitiful little office drone with a bad case of hero worship, can do nothing to stop me from getting the last item on my Life Day list!”

“I’m sure, but hey buddy, just one thing.”

“What?”

Theorn let off a single blast from his pistol. Unfortunately his shot went high and wide, easily avoided by the masked murderer, and hit the junction box right next to him instead. Before the word “pitiful” even left the half-masked lips, the junction box exploded in a shower of sparks, sending off one giant jolt that hit the cybernetic thief full blast. The great Emperor of Zakuul and all around holiday grouch crumpled to the ground in a twitching mess.

Theorn glanced around to see if anyone had seen the bizarre turn of events, but he was alone. He gave a slight shrug and tip-toed past the nearly unconscious man to grab the coveted box still sitting innocuously on its nearly forgotten shelf. He’d already made the call to Coruscant Security with the tip on the grisly scene around him, and he just needed to speedily make his purchase and leave before he was delayed for the party any longer.

Except there was one last thing Theorn still needed to do. Gift safely tucked under his arm, he stopped and leaned over the the still twitching “emperor” to say one last thing.

“Merry Life Day, you filthy animal!”

Final badass quip delivered, Theorn made a hasty retreat.

* * *

By the time Theorn arrived at the party, things had already been in swing for an hour. It had taken him much longer than anticipated to assemble the contents of the box, and even longer to get the item in question boxed and wrapped, before heading to the discreet location where all of the Republic’s top spies were gathered together.

Almost as soon as he walked into the room, a shoddily wrapped gift was shoved in his hand by an unenthusiastic Agent Fauler.

“Thanks?” Theorn said.

“You’re no Deena Riss,” Fauler muttered.

“Who is?”

“Just open it so I can start getting drunk.”

Theorn quickly unwrapped the underwhelming package to reveal a… thing.

“I’ll cherish it forever?” he tried.

“Hey, at least you didn’t have Agent Baklava giving you a gift.”

“Pretty sure he would say that his company was the greatest gift.”

“He did. Which is why I’m now going to drink. If you’ll excuse me.”

Fauler disappeared into the crowd of drunk spies, and Theorn quickly stowed away his… whatever it was, intent on finding the man of the hour. At the far edge of the crowd, near the cozy fireplace, Theorn spotted a familiar flash of red, and began to make his way. Delicately elbowing through inebriated intelligence agents, and pointedly ignoring the couch where Jonas Balkar was shamelessly flirting with a very bored Deena Riss, Theorn absently grabbed a drink from one of the server droids. He needed some liquid courage if he was going to pull this off.

He finally burst free of the crowd to see a handsome man with fabulous hair and a signature one-of-a-kind not-replica jacket as he tried to clearly blend in with the wall behind him. He probably wanted to be back at the office, like the dedicated workaholic that he was.

Target acquired, Theorn sent the signal via his cybernetic implants to the delivery droid on standby. Now all he had to do was keep the other man distracted until the oversized package had been strategically placed.

“Theron!” he called. “Theron Shan, right?”

The spy in question jumped at hearing his name, and then his eyes bulged almost comically as he caught sight of who was talking to him.

“Have… have we met?”

“Well, not officially no. You stood next to me on a lift once.”

“I’m,” Theron’s voice sounded choked, “afraid I don’t remember that. Although I think I would.”

“It’s okay, not many people remember me.”

“I have a really hard time believing that.”

Man, Theron was just the _nicest_ man alive, wasn’t he? Theorn was so lucky to finally meet the living legend.

“So, uh,” Theron glanced around nervously, “Mister…”

“Agent,” Theorn said eagerly, “Shanks. Theorn Shanks.”

“Agent… Shanks,” the words were said carefully, “that’s, uh, a nice jacket you have there.”

“Oh, thank you! Yours is really cool as well.”

“I know, that’s why I’m wearing it.”

Awkwardness hung between them for a few seconds, before Theorn cleared his throat.

“Anyway, Theron, I can call you Theron, right?”

“Actually, I’d rather if you—”

“I just want to say that you’re an inspiration to all of us. Really, the SIS is so lucky to have you as an agent. Like, I mean, who else could save the entire Republic fleet, not to mention the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces _and_ the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order in only his underwear with a defective blaster? You definitely deserved that Cross of Glory!”

“I thought that mission was classified!” Theron squeaked.

“It was,” Theorn assured him, “I just tend to learn a lot of things when the director reassigns me to filing duty for, uh, _reasons_.”

“I’m not really sure what to make of that statement.”

“No one does,” Theorn chirped.

“Clearly,” the senior agent rested a hand on his forehead. “Listen, Agent Shanks.”

“Theorn.”

“Fine, Theorn. It was… uh, _great_ to meet you, but I really should go find my—” A loud screech echoed above the din of drunken conversation, and Theron whirled around to see a protocol droid struggling to shove a very large, beautifully wrapped package across the floor. “What in blazes is that?”

“That’s your gift,” Theorn said helpfully. “I, uh, drew your name in the gift exchange.”

“But… I didn’t _sign_ _up_ for the gift exchange!”

“Oh…” Theorn frowned. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah, it’s…” Theron trailed off, eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on one particular face in the crowd. “ _Balkar_. That sneaky little son of a Hutt must have slipped my name in after I said I was going to come to the party this year.”

“That’s uh, thoughtful of him?”

“I’ll deal with him later,” he muttered irritably. “I’m almost afraid to ask what’s underneath that giant bow.”

“I know it’s not the most conventional gift,” Theorn tittered nervously, “but…”

Theron gave an exaggerated shrug as if to say “what could go wrong?” before cautiously approaching the large present and carefully unwrapping it to reveal a fully functional, model Umbaran train set built to scale. The little train let out a loud whistle as it zoomed around its magnetic ring track.

“Is this…”

“Yes,” Theorn nodded excitedly, “an exact replica of the one from your famous deep cover op!”

“This is amazing—and I really need to talk to Marcus about the level of security on those files—but wow! I love trains!”

“I know!” Theorn chimed in. “Aren’t they the best?”

“The best for blowing up!” They both said together, and shared a good laugh.

“You know, Shanks—”

“Theorn.”

“Right. Theorn, you’re not half bad. And you _do_ have impeccable taste in clothes if I do say so myself. And your hair…”

“That’s a long story. Trust me.”

“Actually, I kind of like it.”

“Well, hey there!” A voice chimed in from behind them both, laying a hand on each of their shoulders, and deftly maneuvering them away from the fireplace and back towards the crowd of people. “If it isn’t the introverted jacket twins.”

“Jones, what are you doing?” Theorn hissed.

“Can’t I say hi to my two biggest pals?”

“We are not ‘pals’, Baklava. In fact, you owe me fifty credits.”

“Check’s in the mail, Theron,” Jones said airily, “besides, you’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Like?”

“Well, for starters that you’re standing under the Life Day stalactite.”

All three men looked up to see the brightly lit and decorated stalactite strategically placed so that it disguised the small snow machine raining flurries down on the party below.

“So we are.” Theron said. “Your point being?”

“Isn’t it a Life Day tradition that whoever is under the snowing stalactite has to kiss?”

“That is not a thing.”

“Sure it is.”

“That’s mistletoe you dolt.”

“Pretty sure it’s a stalactite.”

“Jones!” Theorn caught his partner’s eye and made a not-so-subtle “cut it out” motion.

“I am _not_ making out with you, Baklava.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Jones insisted, “you’re not my type. Also, _I’m_ not the one standing under the stalactite with you, now am I?”

Theron blinked and then looked over at his near carbon copy who was turning nearly as red as the jacket he was wearing, and in general looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“Theron, really, it’s okay,” Theorn insisted, trying to figure out if there was a convenient exit (or failing that, a keg to drown himself in), “it’s not a thing.”

The senior-most SIS agent fixed the awkward attempted-matchmaker with a glare. If looks could kill, then Jones Baklava probably would have been incinerated on the spot. Undeterred, Jones rocked back and forth on his feet, pointing dutifully up at the stalactite. Theron glanced between him, then at his mortified counterpart trying to disappear into his jacket. He might have been a bit of a grump at parties, a workaholic, and more than a little snarky than called for in any given situation, but above all, Theron Shan was a decent guy. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling as if asking for strength from the Force.

“What the hell, why not?”

Without missing a beat, Theron leaned in and graced his greatest fan with a kiss.

“Wow,” Theorn said quietly after they broke apart.

“Thanks for the gift.”

So shocked, Theorn nearly missed the quirked eyebrow and smirk tossed his way by his hero as Jones led his partner off towards the drinks. Theorn’s fingers lightly ghosted across his lips the entire time.

“See you around. _Theorn_ ,” Theron called.

“So, I hope that makes us even for the hair mishap,” Jones said.

“What?” Theorn blinked.

“That’s what I thought.”

It really had turned out to be the best holiday party ever.

* * *

 

##  _Epilogue:_

Back over at the couch, Theron sat down heavily next to Jonas, who looked up from where he was still unsuccessfully flirting with Deena.

“Balkar,” Theron fixed his friend and occasional partner with a glare, “we should have a chat.”

“In a minute, Shan, I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

Theron looked past Jonas to Deena, giving her the universally accepted signal to _run_. She flashed him with a grateful expression and quickly fled from the couch where Jonas had been trying to chat her up under the guise of receiving her Life Day gift.

“Damn it, you scared her off.”

“Must be my charm,” Theron said flatly. “Now, about that gift exchange. Mind telling me why you put my name in without my permission?”

“I don’t need permission since I run the thing,” Jonas grinned. “Besides, I thought you two might hit it off. I mean, your names are practically the same.”

“That’s not a solid foundation for a friendship!”

“I’ve seen flimsier reasons. Besides, I wasn’t expecting you to hit it off _that_ well.”

“Shut it.”

“I don’t know, I’m thinking I should tell your girlfriend. She should know what kind of party animal she’s gotten herself mixed up with. Maybe she’ll think twice before talking you into attending next year.”

“Jonas?”

“What?”

“Don’t make me shoot you.”


End file.
